Chapter Eleven #2
The innkeeper's expression softened marginally. "Well, it's not fancy, mind. And you'll have to eat in the common room with everyone else."
"That's perfectly fine," Ophelia assured him before Alexander could object. "We're grateful for anything."
The man nodded. "My wife might have something dry you could wear, ma'am. You're about our Mary's size."
"That would be so kind, thank you."
Alexander watched this exchange with bewilderment. His wife, and how strange to think that word, was chatting with a common innkeeper like she did it every day. There was none of the Coleridge merchant's grasping he'd expected, none of the social climbing. Just... genuine warmth.
"I'll need payment in advance," the innkeeper said, looking back at Alexander with clear suspicion.
Alexander reached into his pocket and discovered he had exactly three shillings and sixpence. He handed over the required two shillings with as much dignity as one could muster while dripping on the floor.
"This way then," the innkeeper said, leading them through the crowded common room.
The whispers started immediately.
"Look at the state of them."
"Quality, though, you can tell..."
"Did you see the cut of his coat?"
"Ruined now."
Alexander kept his eyes forward, his hand on Ophelia's elbow guiding her through the crowd. He could feel her trembling again, though whether from cold or embarrassment he couldn't tell.
The room, when they reached it, was... well, 'room' was generous. It was a box with a bed, a washstand, and a single chair. The bed took up most of the space, and there was barely room to stand beside it. One narrow window looked out onto the stable yard.
"I'll send the wife up with some dry things," the innkeeper said. "And there's hot water in the pitcher."
Then he left, closing the door behind him, and Alexander found himself alone with his wife in a room smaller than his dressing closet.
"Well," Ophelia said after a moment. "It's... cozy."
"It's a disaster," Alexander corrected, looking around in disgust. "The sheets are probably crawling with..."
"The sheets look clean, actually." She moved to inspect them with surprising thoroughness. "And they smell of lavender. The innkeeper's wife keeps a good house."
"How can you possibly know that?"
"Because I notice things. The floors downstairs were swept, the windows clean despite the weather, and did you smell the bread baking? This isn't a grand establishment, but it's well-run."
Alexander stared at her. "You noticed all that while being dragged through a crowd of staring strangers?"
"I've spent my entire life being stared at for one reason or another. You learn to look past it."
There was something in her voice that made him uncomfortable, a quiet acceptance of discomfort that suggested this wasn't her first time being the subject of whispers and stares. Though he supposed being a Coleridge in society would do that.
A knock interrupted his thoughts. The innkeeper's wife entered; a thin, efficient-looking woman carrying an armful of clothes.
"Oh, you poor dears," she exclaimed, taking in their bedraggled state. "Caught in this terrible weather! Now, these are my Mary's things, she's away visiting her sister, but you're welcome to them, my lady."
My lady. Not Your Grace, but at least a step up from nothing.
"You're very kind," Ophelia said, accepting the clothes gratefully. "I'm afraid our luggage was ruined when our carriage broke."
"These roads are a disgrace," the woman tutted. "My husband's been saying for years they need proper fixing. Now, there's hot soup downstairs when you're ready, and I'll see about getting your things dried."
She bustled out, and Ophelia stood holding the simple dress and shawl like they were made of gold.
"I shall go downstairs while you change," Alexander said, moving toward the door.
"Wait." She stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Your clothes are soaked too. You'll catch your death."
"I'll survive."
"Will you? Because I've already traumatized you once today, and I'd rather not add your death from pneumonia to my list of accomplishments."
He looked at her. She was standing there in her ruined dress, hair still dripping, holding a servant's clothes, and she was worried about him?
"There's nothing here that would fit me," he pointed out.
"No, but..." She moved to the bed, pulling off the thick coverlet. "You could wrap yourself in this while your clothes dry by the fire downstairs. It's better than getting sick."
"You want me to walk around in a blanket? Like some sort of Roman senator?"
"Would you prefer to squelch around in wet boots all evening? Because that's certainly more dignified."
She had a point, though he'd rather not admit it.
"Fine," he said curtly. "Turn around."
"Really? After this morning, we're concerned about propriety?"
"This morning was a disaster. That doesn't mean we've abandoned all civilization."
She turned, facing the window, and Alexander quickly stripped off his soaked coat and shirt. The blanket was rough wool, but it was dry and warm, which was more than could be said for anything else. He kept his waistcoat and trousers on, though they were unpleasantly damp.
"You can turn around," he said.
She did, and immediately pressed her lips together in what looked suspiciously like suppressed laughter.
"Something amusing?"
"You look like a very angry Caesar."
"Caesar conquered Gaul."
"You conquered a Coleridge. That's probably harder."
Despite himself, he almost smiled. "Are you always this irreverent when disaster strikes?"
"Would you prefer I cry? I could, if it would make you feel better. I'm actually quite good at crying on command."
"A useful skill in a duchess."
"I thought so. I can also faint dramatically and flutter a fan to express complex emotions."
"You said you couldn't use a fan."
"I lied. I'm excellent with fans. I just choose not to use them because they're ridiculous."
She was standing there, dripping and muddy, having what appeared to be an actual conversation with him. Not simmering, not calculating, just... talking. It was oddly disconcerting.
"I'll go downstairs," he said. "Give you privacy to change."
"Alexander?" She used his name hesitantly. "Thank you. For the coat earlier, and for catching me all those times, and... for not being cruel about all this."
"That's that low bar again."
"It's still a bar you're clearing."
He left before the conversation could become any more uncomfortable, wrapping the blanket more securely around himself and trying to pretend he wasn't about to walk through a common room dressed like a particularly disheveled Roman.